


the quiet whispers, the children's understanding

by hiroshimalovers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiroshimalovers/pseuds/hiroshimalovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I might like you a lot,” Cosette says in the silence. </p>
<p>“I might,” Marius starts,and stops, before saying it again, “I might.” Cosette just nods and kisses him again, books on Robespierre and the Third Estate on the bookshelf they are almost pressed up against.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the quiet whispers, the children's understanding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MisanthropyMuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisanthropyMuse/gifts).



Marius is all shaking hands and nervous tics, soft stutters and jittery knees. He’s a little anxious and a lot uncomfortable and then there’s a girl who’s always stunning, with beautiful hair and an almost terrifying smile, and their eyes meet for just a moment before there are people, and he stumbles away with a David Bowie record. There’s a scribble on the receipt, a time and a date. His glasses are slipping down his nose and he grins down at the ground, and he looks at it and thinks about blue fingernails and dark wood. He thinks about her and every moment they get to touch, and every moment that might come. The alternative is too scary, and he forgets as he traverses into the outside world, cold wind against his cheek.

The street is crowded outside of the record store, everyone bustling from one place to another, and Marius is swept up in the flow. He stares at the ground as he joins the throng in the train station, one hand tight on his phone and the other on his metrocard. Sliding through the turnpike, he breaks free with dozens, hundreds of other citizens, and lets his feet take him the familiar route of one train to another. Shoulders press in on him as the doors open and he barely snags a seat. Finally, he pulls the already-battered receipt out of his pocket and tries not to smile at the gold, sparkling letters. 

2:00 2/13/2015

He smiles as he mentally counts the days, the hours. It’s a tiny grin, barely noticeable, but the old man in nice hat grunts, and Marius shuts himself down. He pulls in his shoulders and shoves the receipt back in his pocket. His hand curls tighter around his phone (no new notifications), and he knows there are emails to be answered, people to respond to, but he can’t, and he thinks inconspicuous, inconspicuous, 17 hours, inconspicuous. As the train finally pulls to a halt once more, he stands quickly and rushes off, David Bowie safe in his hands.

\--

Cosette has blue hair this week, her nails matching . She is slouched over the counter in Infinite Tones no8, and she taps the counter, a dreamy look on her face. There’s a physics textbook and half a sandwich under the counter, both begging to be utilized as the workday winds down after a rush. Instead, she sits on a tall stool, feet entwined with the legs. 

“Marius was just in?” Fantine asks knowingly, bangles whispering in soft clicks as she sweeps in. The morning times is clutched in her hands, just as every day. 

With a sheepish grin, Cosette nods, “We have a date tomorrow, he was checking in, I think.” The I hope goes unsaid. 

“Do not let him go,” says Fantine, her eyes twinkling out from under her pale green headscarf, “He seems like a good one. Now my old Jean -.” She fidgets with the newspaper, damp from the hours next to the pouring rain.

“Not again,” Cosette sighs with a hint of a smile, thinking of Marius’s hands and Jean Valjean’s reported kindness, “One would think your good old Jean is practically a saint with all the stories you tell about him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” says Fantine, “He was a convict. I remember when he first told me that story - I could hardly reconcile this man with such large muscles to the guy who was alleg-allegedly super skinny and went to jail for stealing bread,” she pauses with a reminiscent look. "Anyway, Marius. What’s the dealio?” her faint Urdu accent sliding out and Cosette couldn’t help but smile as her phone buzzed in with a news alert (New York Times BREAKING NEWS: Jon Stewart Leaving ‘The Daily Show’).

“Not much,” Cosette began, fidgeting with the device, “We’re going pretty steady. I just worry about him - he’s so shy, you know?” 

Fantine nods and says, “I remember when I was first in New York, I couldn’t help but fear. Maybe you will help him.” Cosette shrugs and thanks her before pulling on a old winter coat and fingerless gloves, ratty in the fashionably expensive way. She tucks everything in, in that effortlessly put together ways and thinks of math problems and freckles.

She steps out. 

\--

The moment the apartment door is closed, Marius exhales hard. He unwinds his scarf, once, twice, three times around from his neck and toes off his shoes, stands there in his socks. They are stark against the wood, one orange stripes, and the other bright pink, probably stolen from Courfeyrac. He steps farther into the apartment, very quiet movements before he sinks down onto the couch, the soft cushions welcoming him. 

It is soft and warm and there are sixteen hours and twelve minutes until he sees her again. The expanse of time seems unsurmountable as he thinks about her laugh, and how much he misses her. He pretends he doesn’t know how long since the last date.

\--

The clock ticks past midnight and Marius thinks, ten hours, fifteen minutes, and wishes he didn’t know the seconds. A car engine revs up outside, something heavy falls in a nearby apartment.

Ten hours, fourteen minutes. 

Time stretches on. Marius curls his hands into fists and stares at the ceiling. Time is a harsh master, and he cannot help but dream of moments past and moments yet to come. They are all pulling farther away. The sky is large, but he cannot see it through the curtains. Still, futility comes to him lying in a bed, and time is pulling him away.

\--

Six am finds Cosette over a cup of tea, carefully brewed and caffeinated. Her phone is tight in her hand and her leg bounces. While she does know time is special, it is to be cherished (or so Fantine says), she cannot wait for the next four hours, six minutes. It is still dark in the early morning, and it could just as easily be three in the morning, or ten at night, and as her phone notification goes off (BREAKING NEWS: DEATH OF ISIS HOSTAGE CONFIRMED), and the shadows on the pale yellow walls are large, loud almost. 

She wants it to be to be time. (She wants to see him)  
\--

It is an hour and ten minutes before they are supposed to meet, and Marius sits, ordering nothing, waiting. The waitress from next door looks at him funny, but the bookstore owner (Musichetta, he thinks she’s named) lets him stay, biting nails, anxiety bleeding from every pore. There is a careful selection of books out - a few science fiction novels, among magazines and histories. Marius wants to pick them up, wants to forget that there is one hour, eight minutes, and twenty seven, six, five, seconds until they are supposed to meet.

He is scared, and it shows. 

\--

Thirty-one minutes from the arranged time, Cosette leaves her flat, walking as slow as she can convince herself. She wants to see Marius, to touch his hands, to hear his laugh. It is mere moments away, minutes, seconds, and she worries about him.

The train tunnel is by in a swoosh, and she is walking, and it feels unreal. It is not their first date, it is nothing special, but each and every time, her chest is a flutter and she is so excited to see someone.

(she thinks she loves him)

(she knows she does)

\--

Cosette steps into the bookstore three minutes and two seconds early, and Marius looks up, a grin spreading across his features. He doesn’t move, and Cosette walks to him, touches his wrist so softly, and Musichetta slips into the back. 

“Come,” says Cosette, “Have you been here before?”

Marius stutters for a moment, before squeezing out a simple, “once,” and moves his hand just for a moment back toward Cosette’s. They are not touching, not now, but he wants, yet does not for fear of rejection.

She notices, because she is that kind of girl, in her chucks and t-shirts of obscure bands, in her blue hair and glittering fingernails. Instead of asking, she just grabs his hand, and his face softens. They slip into the section of old books on old topics, and their breathing is loud in the quiet shelves. He’s a little bit taller than she is, and she stands up on her toes a little bit to be level, kissing him softly.

“I might like you a lot,” Cosette says in the silence. 

“I might,” Marius starts,and stops, before saying it again, “I might.” Cosette just nods and kisses him again, books on Robespierre and the Third Estate on the bookshelf they are almost pressed up against. 

“You don’t have to say it,” says Cosette, “I might like you a lot, and I like you enough that I’m not going to force you into anything.” She doesn’t say I love you, but she does grab his hand and this is saying it in a silent way, in a way that he might understand.

Marius nods, silent, beautiful in the poor light. His shoulders are bent, and he looks nervous, and she pulls him around to the next section, books on mysteries, Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes. He smiles at her, and curls his other hand around hers. It is as close to an I love you as he can get, in the way that words are hard to get out, in the way that words are hard to understand. 

Musichetta comes out from the background as the bell chimes with the arrival of someone, and Marius starts, moves to get away, but Cosette holds him there, hands intertwined for all to see - or at least anyone who wanders down their way. She kisses him again, and he kisses back but it is shy, it is hiding. He doesn’t want them to see, and wouldn’t mind but it his wish. 

They amble into an aisle of classic literature, and she picks up a book, opening it to a random page. “All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed,” she says softly, “from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.” Marius ducks his head and smiles.

He grabs his own book in turn, “Familiarity breeds contempt -- and children, from Twain,” and allows himself a grin. She huffs a laugh and they smile at each other, and she pulls him in for another kiss. It is soft and sweet and wondrous, and Musichetta, now putting away books, rolls her eyes. 

“Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe,” says Cosette, and they go on through the store, exchanging lines and kisses and not much more. I love him, thinks Cosette once more, I love him enough to wait forever. Her phone buzzes and she ignores it, not bothering for the newest news because this is for Marius. This is for now.

It is dawning near two in the afternoon, and they have not yet eaten. The sky is bleak and dull, but inside they are bright and lively. “One last quote,” exclaims Cosette, and Marius agrees begrudgingly, pulling a final miscellaneous book off the shelf. 

“The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost, “ he says without stuttering, and Cosette brings him close one last time and kisses him, less innocent than before, and they pull apart, embarrassed. She is beautiful, and he anxious, and for this moment, these hours, he is not thinking of problems and time, and she is not thinking of music and math, and it is a moment not often seen.

They stand together, commiserating and celebrating at the same time, in a way only young lovers can. They stand together, heads bowed, hands entwined. It might be love, and it might be escape. No matter, it is a sort of art.

\--

He is nervous, she is not and they are standing in the back of a bookshop. It is quiet and dusty, and not a place for real romance, not a place for people to stay for too long. It is for passersbys, for wanderers, but this they are not. They are solid, and the time slips by. They whisper in kisses and words and meander for just a few hours in a life of hard breaths and quick responses. 

For a moment, it is quiet.

For a moment, they are nothing more than children in love.


End file.
